


Valió La Pena (It Was Worth It)

by Gefionne



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Minor Original Character(s), Mutual Pining, POV James, POV Shepard, Past Kaidan Alenko/Female Shepard, Romance, canon character deaths for ME3, mentions of sex under 18 (nothing graphic is described), some porn-mostly plot, super slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:48:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29961165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gefionne/pseuds/Gefionne
Summary: A mission gone bad leaves James Vega bitter and angry. To keep the guilt and pain away, he spends two whiskey-steeped weeks playing cards in the bars of Omega. When he hears that Commander Shepard has been accused of terrorism and will be court martialed, he is furious at way the newscasters are so quick to demonize a hero. Little does he know that just outside the bar, a Spectre is waiting to escort him to Earth where he will be serving as head of security for Commander Shepard during the months of her incarceration.He expects to serve dutifully and formally, but over the next few weeks, he learns that Shepard is more than a symbol, more than a hero. She’s a woman to whom he can give his heart.
Relationships: Female Shepard/James Vega
Kudos: 1





	Valió La Pena (It Was Worth It)

**Author's Note:**

> The conceit of this fic is to tell a love story, which requires I deviate from canon enough to capture a version of the events leading up to ME3 and moving through the game that suits it. The first major change is to write out the Crucible, which came off as a deus ex machina. The focus is on uniting the galaxy to fight conventionally and then discovering the Leviathans, which provided a more believable (in my opinion) way to find a powerful ally to defeat the Reapers. The core of the game is there, but I have deviated in ways from ME3, shaping something that I consider a kind of fix-it. I’ve played with the timeline to suit the changes.
> 
> **This fic is complete. Updates every Saturday.**

The place stank: a mix of recycled air, urine, and garbage. It carried through the whole station, though it was concentrated in places like these.

James Vega sniffed, gulping down a mouthful of cheap Terminus beer to wash the stench from his mouth. The batarian across the table from him took it for a tell and flashed his teeth in a macabre grin.

James kept his face blank, though he held the gaze of the batarian’s lower two eyes. The ugly bastard only had three, the fourth socket empty and bisected by a line of dark scar tissue. Narlin was his name and he was a mid-to-nothing grunt in the Blue Suns.

“Got this taking down Archangel,” he had been bragging to a recruit when James had first encountered him ten days before. He had pointed to the scar. “Turian bastard never saw me coming.”

“Clearly he did,” James had chuckled. “Or were you always that pretty?” He was sitting at the bar at Fuselage, one of Omega’s less reputable establishments, nursing a whiskey on the rocks a few stools down from the batarians.

From what he had heard, Archangel had been some sort of vigilante who got in the way of red sand shipments and took out a few higher-ups in the local mercenary gangs. Small time stuff, but James had to hand it to him; he had balls to come to Omega and try to be a hero. Scuttlebutt said he was dead, but nobody in sanitation had ever seen his body.

That night at Fuselage, James had been expecting Narlin and his newbie pal to start something, but the three-eyed batarian had laughed. “Sure as hell prettier than you, human.”

James had shrugged. The night before he had issued a cordial invitation to come outside to a turian who wouldn’t leave one of the asari dancers in Afterlife alone. He was one of the best hand-to-hand specialists in his unit, but taking on an alien with hardened plating and six sharpened claws put a hurtin’ on even the best. James had taken a talon to the lower lip and chin and a fist to the left eye. He had several other yellow and purple bruises on his ribs and shoulders, but the turian had limped off to the nearest med clinic cradling a broken forearm. James wondered if turians bruised.

The next day, his eye was still swollen shut and the cut on his chin was an angry red. He hadn’t had any medigel that night, so he had gone back into the bar and ordered a double shot of whiskey. He drank half and poured the rest over the cut.

The asari dancer had floated over and offered to pay his tab for the night, but he had dismissed her. “It was my pleasure,” he said as he walked out.

After he had related this to Narlin, he and the batarian had exchanged some brawl stories and a few more about women.

“You play cards, human?” the batarian had asked as he finished off his drink.

“From time to time,” James had replied. On his last tour, the rest of his unit had barred him from their Skyllian Five tables after he cleaned them out for the fourth time.

“There’s a game going most nights at Harrot’s,” Narlin had explained. “The old elcor bastard has one hell of a poker face. Three hundred credit buy-in. Interested?”

James had waffled for a few minutes to keep up appearances before finally agreeing. As he followed Narlin to one of the run-down kiosks in the Lower Markets he was smiling to himself, content to have found a way to pay for his shore leave without touching his paycheck.

That first night James had stumbled back to his hotel exhausted, a little drunk, and damn pleased with himself. He had a five thousand credit chit in his pocket and a higher end Elkross Combine pistol on his hip.

He didn’t think he’d ever forget what the elcor Harrot had said when he had laid down yet another four of a kind. “Dismayed disbelief. Again, human? Embittered resignation. I have underestimated your species before, and came to regret it that day, too.”

“What happened?” James had asked Narlin after the game.

“Oh, he got on the wrong side of one of the soldiers of your species,” the batarian had said with a shrug. James, wearing his civvies, didn’t bother to tell him that he himself was in the Alliance. “A female called Shepard.”

Deep as he was in a fifth of Jack Daniels, James had burst out laughing. “Harrot tried to take on Commander Shepard? The first human Spectre? _Dios_ , I would have paid money to see that!”

“Keep it to yourself if you want to keep taking his,” Narlin had said, clapping James on the back.

And he had, appearing at Harrot’s nightly poker games and taking the pots. He lost some rounds, of course, but quickly made his money back, often doubling it. By the end of the first week of his leave, he had gotten an invitation to play a night of high-stakes in Afterlife’s VIP lounge. It took everything he had won and a significant chunk of his hazard pay to buy in, but he had come out with more than he made in eight months. Not that anyone in the Alliance was paid enough to brag about, even an N6.

He wondered if Commander Shepard got a fat bonus from the Council for her “distinguished service.” If anyone deserved a raise, it was her.

Like every other marine in basic in ‘76, he had followed her career since she became one of youngest marines to be awarded the Star of Terra for courage above and beyond the call of duty on Elysium during the Skyllian Blitz. Over the next eight years, he had kept an eye out for news feeds about her being promoted again or leading a successful mission in the Verge.

He had been in special operations training in Brazil when she had been made a Spectre, and he watched the vids of her receiving the Palladium Star along with the rest of the crew of the _Normandy_ and the 24th Citadel and Fifth Alliance Fleets after the geth incursion.

James had poured two tequila shots on the night they announced that Shepard had been killed in action. He drank one and spilled the other in her honor.

He had been pleased and not altogether surprised to hear that she turned up alive after two years, though no one seemed to know how or why. He assumed it was classified and didn’t lose sleep over it.

James had never met Shepard in person, of course. Most marines never had and never would, but she seemed closer to them than most other Alliance heroes, like Councilor Anderson and Admiral Hackett. James figured it had to do mostly with her age. She was only in her early thirties, just four years older than him.

Six months ago, he was on track to receive his N7 commendation, as she had. He had had a long, distinguished, and (eventually) well-paid career ahead of him. But that was before the Collectors hit Fehl Prime.

James looked back down at his cards, deliberately pushing the memories of his last mission from his mind. Straight flush, fives high. He was going to wipe that shit-eating grin right off of Narlin’s face. Harrot and the two turian mercenaries had already folded.

“What have you got, human?” the Blue Suns merc taunted.

“You first, Pretty,” James replied, flashing Narlin a smile.

The batarian grumbled but laid down two pair. “If you’ve got something to beat this, I’ll never play you again.”

James took a slow sip of beer. It was not the first time he had heard that threat. Usually it held for about two weeks before someone got cocky enough to challenge him again.

“Well, Pretty,” he said, pausing to clear his throat, “I regret to say that this is the end of our short but illustrious friendship.” He laid down his cards to a chorus of groans.

Sweeping his winnings onto his side of the table, James got to his feet. “That’s it for tonight, gentlemen. The Vega Charitable Foundation for Humanity’s War Heroes opens again tomorrow at midnight. Your donations are graciously accepted.”

He was cursed in several different languages as he pocketed the various credit chits, ammunition, and weaponry. Most of the guns he would sell the next day. The thermal clips he kept for his pistol.

The streets of Omega were never wholly deserted, even in the wee hours of the morning cycle, and the lights never dimmed. Arcturus or the Citadel had noticeable changes in light levels based on the galactic standard twenty-hour day, but Aria, the self-proclaimed Queen of Omega, didn’t give half a shit about whether or not people slept at regular intervals.

The windowless room he was renting at least had its own on-off switches, even if there wasn’t a timer. The hotel was a dingy roach trap in the Kenzo District, run by a salarian who sat at the desk snoring at the same decibel level as an oncoming freight train. When he did wake up, he told endless streams of rude jokes from the humor columns of _Fornax_.

Hearing the snoring for a good three meters down the hall, James went quickly past the desk and over to his door. Sliding the keycard three times before it actually read, he slipped into the blackness of his room.

There was little to it: stained, fraying carpet and a bunk against the wall to the left of the door. What few civilian clothes he had were scattered around in piles, if he wasn’t wearing them. His duty fatigues and dress blues, though, lay on the only chair in the room, folded with sharp corners and starched creases.

He had worn the blues to the memorial service for his CO, Captain Toni, and the men on his squad killed in the line of duty on Fehl Prime. Their bodies had never been recovered from the Collector ship that took them, but their names, inscribed on steel bricks beside the insignia of the Alliance, had been ejected one at a time into the void from the funerary ward on Arcturus Station.

Most of their families had chosen to hold private services on their home colonies, but one old man, an ex-marine himself, appeared in his moldering blues to honor his grandson. Corporal Nicky Barrows, twenty-one years old, had been the fifth generation of men in their family to serve in the Alliance Navy. And he was the last. His parents had had only one child.

James had stood at attention next to Private First Class Alexandre Barrows, Retired, as the only legacy of his bloodline was spaced.

“Private,” he had said, turning to the old man after the last of the salute gunners had marched out. “Lieutenant Commander James Vega. I assumed command of the mission on Fehl Prime after Captain Toni was...killed.”

What the Collectors did to his squad and the colonists they were trying to protect: they weren’t dead, just put in some kind of suspended animation and carried off. But he couldn’t explain it right and there was no reason to. They were never coming back.

“Your grandson died on my watch, sir.”

Every night he dreamed of it: watching the Collector ship explode as it met the planet’s surface at terminal velocity. Battered and barely holding together, the asari archeologist Treeya had managed to get up to the bridge just in time to watch it happen. She clutched the data cuff that she had taken from that piece of shit Cerberus operative Messner in her hand as the tears rolled silently down her face. It was critical intel, the stuff they needed to take down the Collectors and put a stop to the attacks on human colonies. But out of nearly a thousand colonists, he had saved only one.

When he had delivered the data package to Alliance Command, they had congratulated him, promoted him to lieutenant commander, and then informed him that Commander Shepard of the _Normandy_ had successfully infiltrated the Collector homeworld and destroyed them. All the colonists and James’s squad, damn good marines, had died for data they didn’t even need.

The old private had turned and looked James up and down with watery blue eyes. “Nicky followed his orders, son. So did you. He died with honor, and you’ll live with it until your time comes.” Snapping a smart salute, he barked, “Sir,” and strode out with the vitality of a man half his age.

“ _Honra_ ,” James spat as he looked at the folded uniform. Soldiers died, he knew that, but when they were put in the ground for no good reason, it made him furious.

After the funeral and his promotion, he had been given two weeks of shore leave. Following that, he was supposed to deploy on another high-priority spec ops mission under the supervision of an N7 operative who would ultimately decide if he was ready to be elevated to the N7 designation himself. The elite of the Alliance marines, an N7 was lethal on the ground, but also a tactician and commander.

James had a head for strategy, Captain Toni had said. And if he started to act like one, he would make one hell of a commander, maybe even have his own squad someday.

But Toni had been wrong. James had led all but one member of his team and 956 colonists into their graves.

He had come to Omega to clear his head, get drunk, and fight in a couple bar brawls. The fights kept the guilt at bay for a few hours, but it always returned. If he made it up to the N7, would he even be able to face another command? He was damn good at carrying out his orders, but giving them…

Walking into the bathroom of his hotel room—really a closet with a toilet that folded up when he wanted to shower—he peered at his reflection in the chipped and half-fogged mirror. The cut on his lip and chin had healed, but it would scar. It was a reminder, like all the others, of what his body had seen and survived.

“Live with honor,” he said, echoing Private Barrows. He wasn’t sure he knew how.

He considered taking a shower, but the water was never hot and it had been recycled so many times he was sure it was half piss anyway. Feeling the urge to contribute, he relieved himself, leaning one hand against the wall.

The room, for two weeks, didn’t even cost a quarter of what he’d won that night alone. He smiled, thinking of the guns he could pick up with the richest chit in his pocket. Maybe he’d get decked out in a full set of Hahne-Kedar armor, buy an M-15 Vindicator—his duty weapon—with a stock of thermal clips and go all Archangel on Omega’s ass.

The turian had been a sniper, though, he’d heard. James never had a steady enough hand for long-distance shots. Never had the patience either. He wanted to get right up into the shit in a firefight. Lay into the enemy with his rifle at close range, knock him back, and stab him. Sniping was too sterile. Before he killed someone, James wanted to see him.

He flexed the fingers of his free hand, missing the feel of an assault weapon. He had been considering, seriously, resigning from the Alliance and starting a new life on Omega. He could make it playing poker for a while, but every man’s luck turned sooner or later. He’d lose it if he sat around playing cards and drinking every night, anyway. Boredom and restlessness in a soldier cause more trouble than sending him out in the field.

James frowned as he zipped his fly and flushed. For ten years the only thing he’d known was military life. He didn’t know how to do much else but fight. If he left the marines, his only choice would be to join a merc gang. Maybe Narlin would put in a good word for him with the Blue Suns.

“Fuck you, Pretty,” he grumbled as he walked back out into the main room. “And the Blue Suns, too.”

Falling back heavily onto the bed, he pulled up the Alliance News Network on his omni-tool. Even in the Terminus he wondered what was going on back home on Earth. He went to select the _Planetside Daily_ , but the scrolling text at the head of the display caught his eye. It was already halfway through: “—NDREDS OF THOUSANDS, UPDATES PENDING.”

James waited for the text to scroll around again, his eyes widening as he read: “ALPHA RELAY EXPLOSION IN BATARIAN BAHAK SYSTEM, CASUALTIES IN THE HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS, UNCONFIRMED ATTACK BY HUMAN TERRORIST GROUP.”

* * *

“Not bad,” James observed as he looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror outside of one of the kiosks in the Lower Markets two days later.

“You like it?” asked the quarian proprietor. She was a small female in a bright red and gold exo-suit. It was one of the better ones James had seen, and the reason he had come to her to commission a custom leather jacket. Because they always had to be covered from head to foot, the quarians were the best tailors in the galaxy. Their prices were _loco_ , but he had money enough to burn. 

The jacket—black, aromatic leather with a thick red bar over the right shoulder and down the length of the arm—fit him like a glove.

“Wasn’t there supposed to be more red?” James asked, glancing at the plain black on the left shoulder and arm.

“Yes, yes,” said the quarian, “but it looks much better this way.”

“Sure,” James said, shrugging, and handed her his credit chit.

The Markets were packed, bustling with traders, buyers, smugglers, and thieves. Once he had paid the quarian, James made his way over to one of the weapons dealers. Pulling out the pistol and two rifles he had won in the previous night’s poker game, he started to haggle with the asari merchant. Ex-commando by the look of her, she drove a hard bargain.

“Eighteen hundred is my final offer, human,” she said. “Unless you’re willing to throw in tonight.” She trailed a blue finger along the length of his arm.

“Not for hire,” he replied, holding out his credit chit. “Eighteen hundred and _fifty_.”

Smirking, the asari transferred the funds. “Too bad. You look like you’ve got some strong DNA for randomizing.”

“Thanks,” James muttered as he turned away. While no two asari looked perfectly alike, James couldn’t look at one without seeing Treeya. He had done his damnedest over the two years he and Delta Squad had been on Fehl Prime to get her attention, but when he finally had they could barely look at each other anymore. The colonists stood between them, their ghosts glaring at him, blaming him for his choice to value data above their lives. He had said goodbye to Treeya on the Citadel, knowing he would never see her again. He watched as she faded into the crowd, and then he turned and boarded the transport to Omega.

Taking a step into the crowd, he bumped into another quarian, this one in an elegant lavender and white exo-suit.

“Excuse me,” she said briefly before turning back to her companions, an asari in white piped with blue, and a stooped figure robed and hooded. Intrigued, he fell into step a few paces behind them.

“Are you sure this transport is secure?” he heard the quarian ask the asari.

“Absolutely, Tali,” she replied. “Feron is my most trusted associate. He will see to it that Legion arrives safely at the rendezvous.”

“Your concern for us,” spoke a synthesized voice from beneath the hood, startling James, “is appreciated, Creator-Z–”

“Not here, Legion!” snapped the quarian, looking around them. “You can thank me when you get safely back to your people.”

James, having ducked into a corner to avoid being seen, hurried after them again. Was it possible that they were smuggling some kind of advanced mobile VI? He once again considered sending in his resignation and setting up shop on Omega. At least it would never be dull.

By the time he had gotten close enough to hear their conversation again, though, the topic had shifted.

“…impound and repurposing,” the asari was saying. “EDI is not going to like it.”

“Do you think the Alliance will shut her down?” the quarian asked, clearly dismayed.

The asari smiled. “I strongly doubt Joker would let them even if they tried.” Her brow knit, her expression becoming more serious. “It’s not EDI I’m worried about. She was right, of course, to dismiss the Cerberus crew before the Alliance could take them prisoner.”

“And the rest of us can go home to rally support for the fight,” the quarian said. “I just wish we could be there for her, Liara.”

James balked. Liara. He knew that name. Dr. Liara T’Soni had been Treeya’s mentor, the prothean expert who had become obsessed with the sentient machine race called the Reapers. Neither Treeya nor James had bought that story before they had retrieved the data from the Collector ship. But after, Treeya had told him she was going to find Dr. T’Soni and help her. James wasn’t completely surprised to feel his stomach clench with a hope that maybe she was on Omega and he could see her.

“Admiral Hackett said that the tribunal may see fit to call witnesses. I will gladly testify on her behalf, though I’m afraid it won’t do very much good.”

“You’ll have your eyes and ears open throughout the trial?”

“Of course,” said Liara T’Soni, touching the pistol at her hip. “Now, you had better take Legion to the docking bay. Take the alternate route. We’re being followed, albeit clumsily.”

Before she could turn, James ducked into a nearby stall. The batarian merchant cursed him, but he was out on the other side before he could take a swing at him.

Whatever that _extraño_ trio had been into, Liara at least had spoken to Admiral Hackett of the Fifth Alliance Fleet. That was big shit, whatever it was. Definitely more than just a smuggling deal, James decided. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his new jacket, his thoughts shifting to where to eat before heading to Fuselage for a couple of early evening rounds of Skyllian Five.

* * *

“Raise,” said James, dropping another credit chit into the center of the table. “A hundred credits.”

Narlin sniggered and slid his own chit into the pot. “Raise,” he growled. “Three hundred.”

James whistled, feigning shock. He had sunk three times that into his jacket and nearly half as much into lunch earlier. Three hundred meant little to him in the long run. He pushed another chit into the pot.

The turian folded, leaving only one other batarian, a massive specimen who worked in Aria T’Loak’s security detail. “Raise a hundred,” he rumbled as he added his chit.

James didn’t bother to look at his hand, instead taking a slow sip of beer and glancing around the cramped taproom. Most of the patrons kept to themselves, their business, and their own drinks. The krogan bartender was polishing glasses, occasionally glancing up at the news feed on the vid screen next to the bar. The report for the last half hour had outlined the startling percentage of fatal cases of Kepral’s Syndrome among drell.

“Breaking news in the story of the Alpha Relay Disaster,” read the newscaster, his deep voice booming compared to the soft-spoken correspondent on Kahje. “Commander Shepard, the first human Spectre and hero of the Battle of the Citadel, has been taken into custody by human Systems Alliance officials.”

Brows drawing in, James looked over at the vid.

“Details are still coming in, but it has been confirmed that the Citadel Council has not reinstated Commander Shepard’s Spectre status. Formal charges have yet to be made, but Shepard is alleged to have been working with the notorious human terrorist group Cerberus to carry out the attack that destroyed the Bahak System.”

_The hell she did_ , James thought, anger beginning to roil in the pit of his stomach. Shepard may have dropped off the map for a couple of years, but there was no chance she had joined Cerberus. She had been instrumental in taking down some of their major operations. James clearly remembered reading the feeds about it before the news about Saren broke.

“Batarian officials are already demanding retribution,” the reporter continued. “Jenyr Al’thad, Speaker for the Batarian Hegemony, stated earlier that the batarian people deserve to receive Shepard’s head–”

“It’s your bet, human,” said Narlin as James was getting to his feet. He ignored the merc, stalking over to the bar instead.

“Change the channel,” he growled to the bartender.

The krogan gave him an impassive look that said, _I’ve dealt with worse than you_.

His temper flaring, James snapped, “Change it. We’ve heard enough.”

“Leave it,” hissed a batarian at the bar.

James shot him a glare before turning back to the bartender.

“Patrons like the news,” he rumbled with a shrug.

Pushing away from the bar, James went over to where the vid screen hung on the wall. Grabbing it with both hands, he ripped it away. A shower of sparks rained over his arms.

“Hey!” roared the bartender. “That’s gonna cost you, kid!”

“Take my winnings,” James snarled in reply.

“You haven’t won anything yet–” Narlin started, but James had already stormed over and slapped his cards down on the table: a royal flush.

“Keep the difference,” he yelled to the bartender. “As long as I don’t have to listen to that _mierda_.”

James made to walk out, but Narlin placed a hand on his chest. “Not so fast, _my friend_. I would hate to learn that you’re a Shepard-lover. After all these good times we’ve had together.”

“Get out of my way, Pretty,” he growled in warning.

“You don’t think the batarians deserve some payback?” said the massive batarian who had been playing with them, getting to his feet. James had nicknamed him Security because of his job.

“Why don’t you two just get back to your game and I’ll go my way?”

“Not this time, human,” Narlin said, drawing the curved knife from his belt.

“I’ll dance if that’s what you want,” said James, taking a long step back. The first slash of the knife missed his neck by millimeters, but the vid screen connected with Narlin’s face with a resounding _crack_ and the splintering of glass. The merc stumbled back, but shook it off, charging again.

This time James caught his knife with the screen, twisting it out of his hands. “Sorry, Pretty,” he said as he slammed blade and screen into Narlin’s chest. With a gurgle of blood and saliva, the three-eyed batarian collapsed to his knees.

James stood, panting, next to the corpse, but he never took his eyes off the batarians who were appearing from other corners of the bar to join Security.

“Careful,” snarled the one who had been sitting at the bar. “He’s human military.”

Reaching up to his chest, James grasped his ID tags. Usually he kept them tucked into his shirt, not wanting to draw unwanted attention on the station, but they had slipped out during the scuffle.

“You’re damn right I am,” he barked.

“You Alliance scum,” said Security. “You’re all the same. Think you’re so much better than us.”

James shrugged. “Better _looking_.”

“We’ll see how you look after we–”

He didn’t wait for the batarian to finish. With a roar, he charged, tackling him through the glass of the window behind them and down a floor onto the street below. They hit the ground hard. Though Security took the brunt of the impact, James felt the air rush out of his lungs.

Rolling to his feet and coughing, he wiped a rivulet of blood from his face. Looking down, he spotted a few tears in the leather of his jacket from pieces of broken glass. “ _Hijo de puta_!” he yelled at the three batarians jumping over the window and into the street. “This is a brand new jacket.”

“Get him!” howled one of the batarians.

He grabbed James by the arms, but James sprang up against him, putting his boot heel right into the face of one of the others. Flipping the batarian over his back, he ducked under a blow. He elbowed that second batarian in the neck, sending him reeling and gasping for breath.

James had sunk down into a crouch just as another charged him. He had braced, ready to grapple, when a flash of blue sent the merc flying into a nearby dumpster. The batarian slid down, unconscious. The others, recognizing that they were outmatched, scrambled to their feet and hobbled off.

Rolling his shoulders—he’d have a few good bruises in the morning—James called out, “Hey, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” The reply came from a figure emerging from the shadows of the alley. James recognized him from the recent vid coverage of his induction into the Council Spectres. He was shorter than James had imagined, but Major Kaidan Alenko in full battle dress, his left fist glowing a faint blue, was pretty damn imposing.

James snapped his heels and saluted. “Major.”

“At ease, Lieutenant,” said Alenko, surveying the broken glass and blood that speckled the street. “I have to admit, Vega, when I got the order to find you here, I actually thought I might have had to look.”

“Glad to hear I made your job easier, sir,” James replied, the corners of his mouth turning up.

“You’re lucky this is Omega or you might actually have had to pay for all this.”

James shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time, sir.”

Alenko’s eyebrows rose, but he said, “Lieutenant Commander James Vega, I’ve been ordered to escort you to Alliance Judicial Headquarters in Vancouver where you are to report for duty.”

James balked. Earth? There was nowhere near enough action on the homeworld to merit the attention of an N6, let alone a Spectre. “Permission to speak freely, Major?”

“Granted.”

“My leave’s not up for another two days. And who in the hell sends a Spectre to find a grunt like me?”

Alenko gave him a half smile. “Get your gear together, Lieutenant. I’ll explain en route.”

“Yes, sir,” James muttered as he set off at a jog toward Kenzo District.

* * *

“You’d actually want to stay here another two days?” Alenko asked as they strode into James’s room.

“Omega kind of grows on you,” James said as he shed his jacket and headed for the bathroom. “If you like cheap beer, poker, and bar fights, that is.” He gave Alenko a knowing smile in the mirror. “You a brawler, Major? Got one hell of a left hook.”

To his surprise, Alenko laughed. “A...friend of mine used to say the same thing.”

James noted his hesitation. “Did she now?” he said under his breath, trying to imagine what Alenko’s type might be. Louder, he continued, “Ah, but I guess they teach biotics ‘with power comes great reasonability’ and all that?”

“Something like that,” said Alenko.

James splashed water over his face to wash off the blood. His forehead stung where the cut was, but it was less than a millimeter deep and had already stopped bleeding. Tugging off his plain black t-shirt, he used it to dry his face.

“So, Major,” he asked, sauntering back into the bedroom, “what’s so urgent that the brass sent _you_ to all the way out here for _me_?”

Tossing his dirty shirt and other clothes into his standard-issue duffle, he pulled on an undershirt emblazoned with the insignia of the Alliance. He replaced his jeans with blue and black duty fatigues. Tucking them into his boots, he sat on the edge of the bunk to lace up.

“My orders came from Councilor Anderson,” Alenko said. “Yours come from Admiral Hackett, with Anderson’s approval.”

James got slowly to his feet. “You mean to tell me that _Hackett_ and _Anderson_ requested me specifically?”

“You have an impressive service record, Lieutenant. You received top marks from your supervisors at Interplanetary Combatives Training in Rio. Your success on Fehl Prime–”

“I get it,” snapped James, fastening his belt. “So, is this next mission part of my training?”

“I can’t answer that,” Alenko admitted. “I was told to bring you to Vancouver for duty. That’s as far as my clearance goes.”

James’s eyebrows shot up. “There’s clearance above a Spectre’s?”

“My Spectre status doesn’t give me access to Alliance records beyond my rank,” he replied. “I’ve got the same clearance as any other major.”

James had to admit he was surprised. From the reputation Spectres had, they were in on everything. Shrugging inwardly, he pulled on his fatigue jacket and slung the duffel over his shoulder. “Ready when you are, sir.”

* * *

They didn’t have to jog far to reach Docking Bay 47. They were greeted at the outer airlock door by two marines, both armed to the teeth. Glancing out the window, James spotted a small ship painted in gray and green. The name on the hull, in black, read _SSV Virmire_.

“She’s a ten-man corvette,” Alenko explained as they went through decontamination protocol. “Good size for my squad and small enough to enter atmo quietly. She’s equipped with quantum entanglement communication, which we’ll use to link to Anderson so he can brief you.”

_This day just keeps getting better_ , James thought. First that conversation in the Markets, the brawl with the batarians, a Spectre showing up as an escort, and now he was supposed to have a heart-to-heart with the Council’s representative for his entire species. He was glad he’d stuck to beer during the card game.

He followed Alenko through the CIC of the corvette, duly impressed by the clean newness of it. The sailors they passed were working at their various consoles, though they nodded if they met his eyes. It was clear the major ran a tight ship, though at least no one saluted as they walked by. Any CO that made his crew salute him at every turn was just looking for a cock stroke. It didn’t win loyalty, that was for damn sure.

“Pearson,” said Alenko to a slight young woman of no more than twenty, “take Lieutenant Commander Vega’s things to his bunk.”

As James handed over the duffel, she flashed him a smile. “Welcome aboard, Lieutenant Commander.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“Lawrence, establish the connection for vid-com,” Alenko called to a brawny crewman in a headset.

“Aye, sir.”

“Right in here, Vega,” said the major, leading him into the briefing room. “The link will be up in a few seconds. Anderson will terminate it when he’s done with you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said James, holding out his hand.

Alenko shook it and went out.

James looked around the room. He contemplated sitting in one of the chairs that surrounded the conference table, but he didn’t want to look at ease in front of Anderson.

He shook his head, hoping the councilor still used military protocol for exchanges between superiors and subordinates. Otherwise James wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of not screwing up during the conversation and causing a diplomatic indecent…or whatever.

_Dios_ , how did he end up in this—

His thoughts were interrupted by the mechanical buzz of the conference table being lowered into the floor. A lattice of blue appeared above it.

“Step into the grid so I can see you, Lieutenant Commander,” said a deep voice he recognized from the speeches.

Moving onto what had been the tabletop, James looked around. In front of him was a projection of Councilor Anderson standing with his hands at his sides.

“Sir,” James barked, saluting.

“At ease, Vega. I’m sure you’re wondering by now what this is all about.” After a moment he added, “Permission to speak freely.”

Clasping his hands behind his back, James said, “Yes, sir, I am. An hour ago I was on leave.”

“I apologize for that. I’ll see to it that the time is made up.”

“I don’t care about that, sir,” James said. “I’d just like to know what’s going on. I’m not the kind of soldier Alliance Command or the Council sends Spectres to retrieve.”

Anderson nodded. “I understand your confusion, Lieutenant, but this is a matter of some sensitivity and we needed to move quickly. As you’ve probably heard, Commander Shepard has been taken into Alliance custody on terrorism charges.”

James nodded, his thoughts turning inadvertently to the holes in the leather of his jacket the damn batarians had caused. Well, he _had_ been the one to tackle one of them through the window.

“As far as we know,” Anderson continued, “and that’s pretty damn far, the accusations are false, but the whole situation bears some explanation. For the past two years Shepard has been working for the Spectres as a deep cover operative within the Cerberus organization. Her death was, of course, fabricated so that she could get off the grid for a while, build up some trust with her targets. It was through her connections to Cerberus that she was able to bring down the Collectors.”

James felt the familiar twinge of guilt when he thought about the Collectors, the data, and Fehl Prime, but he pushed it to the back of his mind.

“The details of the Alpha Relay explosion are a bit hazy still,” Anderson said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “but once we get Shepard planetside, we’ll be able to sort that out. She’ll have to face an Alliance tribunal, and the planning process for that can take months. In the meantime, she will need to be housed in a secure facility and guarded. That’s where you come in, Lieutenant. Your sole duty for the next several months will be to serve as personal guard to Commander Shepard during her incarceration.”

_Yep, this day is shaping up to be a real shitshow._ “‘Personal guard,’ sir?”

“Where she goes, you go. She’ll have her own quarters, of course, but any time she leaves them you are required to accompany her. Generally, she’ll only be expected to attend hearings. She’ll have very limited visitation privileges.”

James ran his tongue over his front teeth thoughtfully. Part of him was certain that any time he would wake up in an alley outside of Fuselage with a raging headache, having had hallucinated this entire experience. But the opposite part was intrigued. He would gladly sit down with any marine hero and listen to a few hours of stories, but to get a few months to pick Commander Shepard’s brain was unprecedented luck.

“If you’re concerned about your pay, Lieutenant,” said Anderson, “it will remain the same.”

“Thank you, sir, but that’s not a problem.”

“Then what is it, Vega? You’ve got something on your mind. Just say it.”

There were a hundred things going through his head rapid fire, but he managed to say, “Before, I was slated for field placement with an N7.”

He could have sworn he saw Anderson smile, but his face was stony again before he could be sure.

“You’ll get your field experience, Lieutenant. But for now, Commander Shepard is the most decorated N7 in the Alliance. Pay attention and you might just learn something from her.”

James nodded. He should have been relieved that he didn’t have to command again. He had wanted a way out that didn’t involve leaving the Alliance, and now that he had gotten it, he was asking about the very training he had been trying to avoid. “Is there anything else, sir?”

“No, Lieutenant, that’s all I have. Major Alenko will make sure you get to the right people in Vancouver. If you have any other concerns, take them to Admiral Ito. She’s in charge of the Judicial Division. She’ll see that I get the message.”

“I’ll do that, Councilor.”

“Vega.”

“Sir?”

“Shepard has been through a lot in the past forty-eight hours. She’s going to need some time to work through it. Be patient with her.”

James was surprised to hear the concern in Anderson’s voice. He wondered what their history was.

“I’ll do my best, sir,” he said honestly.

“That’s all we can ask you for, Lieutenant. Anderson out.”

**Author's Note:**

> I began this story in 2012, and for a while the first few chapters were posted here on AO3. I decided to delete it when I was sure I’d never finish what was slated to be a very long fic. But in 2020, I picked it back up, and here we are!
> 
> I’m on Twitter @Gefionnes and Tumblr.


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